I just put the last nail on the roof. It’s pretty simple, just shingled plywood, but it doesn’t rain much this time of year and I guess I can worry about waterproofing later. For now, I just want to move my stuff in.

Getting a mattress up a ladder is no small task. My wife is no help at all; I’m up here sweating and hauling the thing in the door (which, upon reflection, I think I made a little too small), and she’s standing in the yard, arms akimbo, yelling up at me.

“Honestly, Kevin,” she is saying, while I move the bookshelf so I can fit the mattress by the west wall (it’s got a window). “I don’t know what kind of midlife crisis nonsense this is, but if you don’t get down from that damn treehouse and do the damn dishes we are going to have a serious problem.“

I cheerfully ignore her, grunting with the effort of rearranging my furniture.